Memories of Eden
by Shire.Conspire
Summary: The adventures of the characters are one thing, they are your typical story. But what of the memories that we do not get to see? Come here, and see the world through all their eyes...
1. Memories of Eden

MEMORIES OF EDEN  
  
*  
  
Since the beginning of time there has been a legendary garden set near the ends of the world, where time is forever young and the sun never seems to set. In this garden is an arrangement of magnificent proportions with weaving rivers of honey and milk, and glittering fruit trees of the grandest kind. And among these mythical trees is one of magical element, where the knowledge of what has passed and what is to come hang upon the copper branches and between the emerald leaves.  
  
But it is not where this tree stands, or what its appearance is to the world, because more over is what it holds. For embedded into every glistening fruit, etched into the very fibers of the fresh flowers are the memories of every being who has lived or who has yet to live. Come walk with me, and we shall sit under this majestic canopy, looking up into the sunbeams shining through the branches and leaves. Smile, for this is a rare opportunity.  
  
But go on; do not be afraid to pick the fruit, or smell the blossoms. Follow me into the towering arms of the oak, the rowan, and the cedar. Let us wallow in the memories of others, living the greatest achievements, fearing their greatest defeats. Come with me, this guarantees to be interesting.  
  
Oh, that one looks promising. See how the fruit it sweet even to the touch? Come now, take a bite. See the memory. The girl who left that one is fascinating indeed. Her name is Pansy, I think. Pansy Parkinson. She's a magical little one, with more history than you could ever imagine. Watch now; her memories are extraordinary.  
  
*  
  
Pansy Parkinson hurried towards Defense Against the Dark Arts, the remnants of the first bell ringing endlessly in her ears. She hated being late to class, especially since this was her first year at Hogwarts. It awarded her with frowns from the professors and snickers from her classmates, not to mention the embarrassment one felt when they barged into a silent room.  
  
She hiked her large bag higher onto her shoulder, groaning as the weight of her books began to press a searing ache into her shoulder; but she refused to stop and rub it out. Struggling with her over-sized satchel, Pansy hurried through the corridor, glancing down at her watch apprehensively. She was five minutes late and rising. Her feet began to hurry. She couldn't afford this.  
  
She wasn't doing fantastic in her lessons. She wasn't living up to the Parkinson name and honor. She was the cruelest girl in her year, and she was definitely unpopular with all the houses save for her own. And to add to all that, her professors never were able to look at her without so much as a downcast glare of disapproval. Pansy knew it was partly her fault for her horrid marks. She wasn't an academic prodigy like that disgusting Mudblood Gryffindor, Granger, or whatever her name was. But today's tardiness wasn't her doing. In fact, she had woken up early today, specifically so she wouldn't be in such a situation as now.  
  
She was the first one ready that morning, already heading out of the common room along with many of the other early birds. But before she could leave Blaise and those two oafs, Crabbe and Goyle, had told her that Draco requested her audience in his room. Her school-girl crush had obviously been apparent, for Pansy had dropped everything she was doing and rushed upstairs after them. But when they pointed her down the hallway and at the door leading to the boys' dormitories, her suspicions rose. She turned to tell them that there never used to be a door on the left only to be bombarded by hands and snickers. The next thing she knew she was pounding furiously on the door in complete darkness.  
  
It wasn't until the bell rang that the illusion fell and she was thrown out of the brick wall. With as much coordination as she could muster, she was able to get out of the common room and up the dungeons steps at top speeds. Now her only obstacle was getting to the third floor of the west wing when she was on the first floor of the east wing.  
  
She quickly rounded the corner and let out a sigh of relief; she had only the courtyard to cross and she'd be home free. On the other side she could see that Professor Quirrell's door was still open, meaning that her chances of making it before being marked late were very good. Quirrell was definitely a forgetful and timid man, and these traits were on Pansy's side today. He left his door open often, forgetting to close it and allowing his students to slip in, undetected, and settle down in their seats as if they had been there all along.  
  
Smiling despite her usual smug demeanor, Pansy sprinted off towards the classroom and across the courtyard. Her good fortune seemed to have fallen in her lap once more. And so great was her minute triumph that she wasn't paying attention to where she was walking. Speeding off across the quad, her large bag moved in for the final kill. Her foot caught dangerously on the intersecting walkway and she stumbled to the ground. She threw out her hands out to stop herself as her book bag burst open, the contents spilling everywhere.  
  
For a long while Pansy just sat there, unable to wipe the embarrassment off her face, even if no one had been watching. She couldn't move from the shock of the fall and her horrible bad luck. She didn't have the courage to look up, least the stone walls and brilliant sky taunt her in her fallen state.  
  
She stared down at her hands, her palms stinging as they pressed into the ground. She took in a deep breath and immediately caught the putrid smell of turpentine that stung the back of her throat and she knew that all her ink bottles had shattered into nothing, the black, Indian ink probably splashed across the grass and stone walkway with glistening shadows. She gently lifted one hand and touched her knee and feeling a strange liquid that was either blood or ink as her knee stung with a vengeance.  
  
Slowly and carefully, Pansy sat herself up a little straighter. She began to reach around the ground in a ginger haste, gathering her things together and shoving them forcefully into her satchel once more. She stole a quick glance upward towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom to make sure the door was still open. It was.  
Grabbing all that she could salvage, whether they were drenched in ink or not, Pansy gathered all that would fit in her bag or her arms. She tried pulling herself to her feet but the weight of her things held her down. Desperate to get to class, she piled her books in one hand and made to push herself up; but as her hand pressed against the warm stone she felt a small sliver of glass sink deeply into her skin. Groaning, she withdrew her hand and glared down at the offending fragment, cursing the ink bottle that it had once been. She looked down at her palm where a red liquid began to blossom from the cut. Aggravated and upset, Pansy clenched the muscles in her jaw, forcing herself not to throw a spoiled fit, even if she was in the perfect position to do so. Things just didn't seem fair anymore.  
  
"Need help?" a quiet voice asked from above. Surprised, Pansy jerked her head up, finding a pale hand held out to her, almost, (dare she even think it?), containing the air of friendliness. She looked farther up to look into the face of its owner and couldn't suppress the gasp that escaped her. Although the damsel-in-distress method was not what she was accustomed too, Pansy couldn't help but act in such a way. It wasn't everyday that the object of her affection acknowledged her existence. She could only shrug in response.  
  
Taking that as a yes, Draco took hold of her hand, hauling her up to stand on her own two feet. She didn't say anything, far too captivated for words. In fact, her infatuation had gotten the better part of her attention so that she did not know that she had bled all over his hand.  
  
"You're hurt," he stated, completely unconcerned. He reached for her trembling fingers once more and turned over her palm in his hand, noticing the garnet cut against her skin. She held her breath as he instinctively whipped out his handkerchief, wiping away the red until her skin looked untouched save for the hairline sliver left behind. "No magic in the corridors," he drawled, as if apologizing for binding her hand with his handkerchief, the embroidered green 'M' looking up at her. But she could not reply to his rather odd sympathy; her voice had simply fled from her, leaving her alone and somewhat empty inside apart from her thumping heart.  
  
"Thank you," she tried to say, but it came out as a mime, and he did not even notice. She could still feel his cold finger gently holding her own and she quickly withdrew, too nervous to proceed with such an intimate gesture.  
  
"Well, bye then," he said, and brushed past her without even looking her in the eye or waiting for her reply. In a sudden flash he was no longer in front of her sight, but gone, almost as if he had not been there. The meeting had been so awkward, so unplanned, that for awhile Pansy wasn't sure if it actually happened, and that maybe she was still sitting on the ground, waiting for the world to stop laughing and her knee to stop stinging.  
  
"Hey, Pansy," Draco called from behind her. She whipped around, cursing her own eagerness but blessing his haloed head for staying behind. She saw him framed between two columns in the stone hallway, his back straight and his hair far too fair to be real. She would have responded, but he was already speaking to her. "I left the dormitories at six this morning. I haven't been back since." And with that, he turned on his heel and left, not realizing the immense weight of relief and love he had dropped at Pansy's feet.  
  
For a long time she stared after him, the black of his robes and the lightness of his skin lingering in an afterimage between the columns. Her hand still tingled with the touch of his skin on hers, and she could still feel the searing gaze of his eyes on hers, their stormy grey shade causing the rest of the world to look far too cheery and bright for one's eyes.  
  
The resounding thud of wood hitting stone. Pansy spun around and looked towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. The door was closed. She turned right around and headed back for the Slytherin Dungeons. She suddenly did not care much for lessons today.  
  
*  
  
There, now wasn't that sweet and satisfying? I promise you, the rest of them will be just like that, maybe even better.  
  
What? You did not think our journey ended here, did you? Child, of course not! Look around you; there are so many more branches to visit, so many more memories to know. Now, take my hand and let us go. Watch your feet as we go upward now, to that distant bough, where the petals bloom a livid blush. You can smell their fragrance from here, can't you? They are stargazers, and they are beautiful.  
  
Can you guess who's mind is entrapped in these beauties? Oh, but you should! Who can look so strange and charming, yet be so far out of reach to where we can barely graze their petals? Why, she is a Ravenclaw at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and she is also a friend of Harry Potter. You do know who Harry Potter is, don't you? Good. I wasn't sure for a moment.  
  
But see, I am speaking too much. Let us fall into another's eyes, and see what they see. Come, the world of Luna Lovegood is waiting. 


	2. Through the Eye of the Moon

Through the Eye of the Moon  
  
People called it staring. I never stared. In all my life, I have never stared at any one. Staring is pointless, rude and shows lack of interest. I never lack interest in anything. I never stared.  
  
I watched.  
  
Watching is different; you learn things, see things and register them. That's what I do, and I pride myself on it, though others don't think of it as highly as I do. That's how I got the nickname Loony Lovegood, I guess; but I do not mind. They wouldn't understand if I told them.  
  
But I was a watcher, and the best I have met, if I do say so myself. Everything I have ever seen or read I remember and everything I have seen or read I believe. It's not hard to think this way; children do it all the time.  
  
But at Hogwarts, I know everything. I have seen everything. I watch. People don't understand that I understand them. They wouldn't have known unless they lived a day through my eyes.  
  
Every morning I wake in my dorm room. I pull back the royal blue hangings of my bed and walk over to the window next to my dresser. I stand there for an hour as the other girls in my dorm wake up as well and get ready for the day. They're all used to it now, that I can stand by the window and say nothing and not move, like a statue. It's habit for them. But no one knows why I stand there. They wouldn't know why.  
  
Today I can see them clearly in the window and I watch them as I watch the grounds come to wake in the morning. The flowers near the gamekeeper's hut slowly open their petals as Aurora takes the wilting rose from its tiny vase on her nightstand and hangs it with the dozen others over her bed. Then she sets the vase down on the floor of her bed post and leaves the dorm. Outside, a great eagle owl swoops down behind Hagrid's hut. I turn to look at Aurora's vase on the floor. Only I know why she does this.  
  
Aurora's father left her when he found out his wife was a witch. He loved them both, but he was forcibly against magic and the like. He used to always bring Aurora a single rose when he got back from work, saying that they were the closest things that could compare to how beautiful and wonderful his little girl was. Now, at school and every morning, she sets her vase down on the floor because by next morning, another rose might be there. She thinks it's her father, and it reminds her that he still loves her. She has told no one these things.  
  
Only I would know these things because I watch. I know her story because her father's picture is always next to the vase, and it is always facing away from the window; away from the horizon that separates them. She does not want the picture to face the window, because I can see in her eyes that she thinks he'll want to leave again if he sees the outside world.  
  
Then Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts, steps out from his hut, stretches, and walks around to the back of his cabin just as Diana comes walking into the dorm for the first time this morning. Her hair is windblown and she has a bit of straw clinging to her skirt. Then she quickly walks to her dresser, brushes her hair, dusts off her clothes and leaves for breakfast. No one asks her where she has been, and no one cares that she wasn't in bed when we all woke up. But I know why, though I never asked.  
  
I watched.  
  
Then, once everyone was finished fixing themselves and left, I would shower and change, not paying attention to what I was doing to myself but paying attention to how the room looked after everyone left.  
  
Aurora's bed is perfectly made, with the bouquet of wilting roses hanging on the wall over her headboard. Diana's bed is made but messily, as she had done it early in the morning when the sun had not yet given her light to see by. And Artemis's bed had the covers turned down and the hangings shut on all sides expect one. Artemis is Diana's twin sister, though they are not identical. No one realizes that they're twins, only that they share the same last name. No one knows, except one person.  
  
Me.  
  
On my way to the Great Hall I meet Ginny Weasley at the foot of the marble staircase. We didn't arrange to meet there, but we did. We said good morning and walked into the Hall together, and then go our separate ways. She was always the kindest person to me, and so I watched her more intently than others.  
  
I sit near the end of my table, never looking down at my plate but always looking up. I needed to only single out the one, luminescent head among the sea of darkness, and then Draco Malfoy, sworn enemy to Harry Potter, would spring to my sight. I never really liked watching him, as he was more of a bumbling, arrogant little git; but today seemed like a special day, and so I took the time to watch him as well.  
  
When the post comes he looks up, almost as if he's waiting eagerly for his eagle owl to land on his shoulder. The owl does come, and it has a package with him: a manila-colored envelop and a single red rose. He takes the letter and puts it into his pocket, but momentarily glares at the rose before giving it silently to Pansy. She stares at it, then at him, but takes it without question. It gets stuffed into her bag before she even gives it a second thought.  
  
When it is time for everyone to leave, I'm one of the last to get up, sitting very still with my eyes very wide, so as to see everything. Draco Malfoy gets up from his table rather quickly and slings his bag over his shoulder. He stalks to the doors and out of the Hall with a swish of his robes, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle close beside him.  
  
I could always tell when Draco Malfoy was frustrated about something; and he was usually frustrated when he received that envelop everyday. His walk was more pronounced than in his second, third and fourth year. He scowled only when people were watching, as if it were too hard to do when he thought people weren't. I knew he would be exceptionally difficult today. Today he'd gotten a rose, and he did not appreciate it. He was not fond of flourishes, this boy.  
  
But by this time I am one of the last ones left at the table, having fallen into my own world and hitting that moment in what people called a 'stupor'. I guess I would get this strange, faraway look in my eyes and they would become very wide and people got the word 'loony' from it.  
  
But then the bell rings and I rise to go to class. And on my way to the marble staircase, I cross paths with three very interesting people: Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and Ronald Weasley.  
  
I don't like Ron, if that is what everyone thinks. He isn't someone who would be able to accept me, whether he knew me or not. And it would be for terms of prejudice or plain dislike. He wasn't meant to be rational. He was meant to take the rationales of the world and replace them with vague glimpses of hope.  
  
But I always watched him with more of a misted look. Why? Because he never got his due. He was one third of the famous three, yet his one third was overlooked only to see Harry and Hermione as two halves to a whole. I had decided, long ago, that I would give him his due. I'd appreciate him.  
  
But none of them looked my way, and we pass each other without a word said between us. At that same moment, Pansy brushes past me, overlooking me as she usually does with most people and heads for the marble staircase. I look to her bag, with its flapping hanging open. The rose is already gone.  
  
The remains of the morning proceed like any average school morning would. Professors preaching, lessons being learned, detentions distributed; nothing out of the ordinary. Oh, but you must know that Diana is late to Charms class! And even into the afternoon her hair is strewn with hay. 'Why the mess?' I ask her. But she looks at me with concealed dismay and only answers politely 'Nothing, Luna. I was just in the owlery'. And no more is said.  
  
By the time lunch descends people are already anxious to get to the Great Hall and chat with friends. I pass the third floor corridor on my way. Filch is standing there, fussing over a vase set in an alcove in the wall. Next to the vase is a rose petal. Just one.  
  
Everyone rushes into the Great Hall. Not I. I linger in the doorway. People are laughing, having fun and what not. But Dean Thomas, the very same Gryffindor as Harry, Ron, and Hermione's, walks in with a rose in hand, beaming slightly at the prospect of such a beautiful gift. The supposed first recipient of the blooming bud is Ginny. Their courtship is common knowledge by now.  
  
He gives the flower to Ginny, and she takes it with a smile and a flip of her hair. Ron leans over to interrogate about the flower. I go over to talk with them.  
  
Hullo, I say. All four of them look up at me, Harry, Ronald, Hermione, and Ginny. Green eyes, brown eyes, and two pairs of clear, blue eyes.  
  
Hullo Luna, Ginny answers.  
  
Good afternoon, Hermione says, smiling.  
  
Hi Luna, Harry replies.  
  
Ron grumbles, eyeing the rose suspiciously.  
  
It is a glorious day, I tell them. The perfect day for Quidditch.  
  
Harry's eyes lighten. Hermione looks out the window, taking my words into account. Ginny shrugs.  
  
Have you ever actually played Quidditch, Luna?  
  
That's Ron speaking. When I look at him he recoils a little bit. I mean to look sympathetic. I guess I look slightly crazy.  
  
I've never been on a broom in my life, I tell him. He doesn't seem to understand.  
  
Then how do you know it is a good day for Quidditch?  
  
I look out the window. The owls are out, I say. And then I say no more.  
  
Hermione has long since retreated to her book bag, rummaging inside it for something. Harry nods approvingly towards me, because he understands a little bit, at least. Ron is at a loss for words.  
  
Okay, he says.  
  
I notice that Ginny is still holding the rose. It's blossom is in perfect bloom, having just opened from its bud without looking too young and feeble. But it is slightly unbalanced.  
  
Where's the other petal?  
  
She frowns at me. What other petal?  
  
I shake my head and walk over to my table. I sit down and watch them from a distance.  
  
The four of them proceed with their conversation, their words too hard to hear over the hum of tête-à-tête echoing around me. The doors open, and Hagrid walks in for the first today. People from all the tables wave and say hi to him, their voices scatter across the hall. But it is silent on the Slytherin's end. They say nothing.  
  
Hagrid stops next to Ginny and Ron.  
  
How yer doing, Weasleys? he booms, clapping each one on the shoulder. But no one answers and I can tell why. Hagrid is not in a good mood today. He looks like it, but his beady, black eyes look haunted rather than joyous. It is Harry who addresses the problem.  
  
What's wrong, Hagrid?  
  
Nothin', Harry. Nothin' at all. Just a bit 'o dry spell for me.  
  
What do you mean?  
  
That was Hermione. She has found the book she was looking for and it lays open on the table in front of her. But her attention is not on its pages, but on her giant of a friend, his feux smile now gone from his beard.  
  
Bin feelin' a little down fer awhile. Nothin' seems to be happening around here, does it?  
  
Harry gives off a cynical laugh. Just wait for the end of the year, he says. Something always happens at the end of the year.  
  
Can't disagree with that, can I? Ah well, life goes on. How about yer DA, Harry? Ya still keepin' with the times, ain't ya?  
  
I reach in my pocket for the gold galleon Hermione Granger gave the DA last year for meeting purposes. Its still cold as ever, after a lull of not being changed. I watch as Ginny taps Hermione on the shoulder, asking her something under Hagrid's arm.  
  
We just haven't had the time lately, Harry tells him. But we'll try.  
  
Good ter hear. Good ter hear. Good news finds its way ter me, don't it? I mean, jus this mornin' a little eagle owl comes flying into me yard, tired as can be. Didn't do nothin' to no one; jus picked 'imself a budding rose as was off.  
  
Harry smiles and Ron shrugs. Putting two and two together really is Hermione's job, but she's talking to Ginny at the moment, and does not hear.  
  
Well, I'll be off then. See ya three later. And Hagrid is gone.  
  
Hey Hermione, do you mind if I use your book? Ginny is saying. I can't hear Hermione's response, but she hands over the great tome to the redhead. Ginny takes it in her hands and takes one more sniff of the aromatic blossom before placing it in the book and closing the heavy cover onto it.  
  
What do you think your doing? Ron cries. I didn't mean for you to kill the thing!  
  
I start to laugh. No, not giggle uncontrollably behind my hand, but really laughing. I caused quite a raucous at the end of my table, for other Ravenclaws sitting near me had stopped talking and were staring at me. I stopped and looked back at them. I returned to watching the Gryffindors.  
  
I'm pressing the flower, Ron. It makes it last longer. But I don't have a book heavy enough, so I asked Hermione if I could use hers.  
  
You're helping her?! Hermione!  
  
Oh, shut up Ron. Your making a mountain out of a mole hill.  
  
Ron says nothing and the bell rings for class.  
  
As I walk down the corridor I find that I am replenishing the steps that Hermione has already taken five seconds before me. She is taking a different route today, and I wonder why. Her next class is Arithmancy, and that is no where near the Divination room. Nonetheless, she is walking swiftly, holding the tome she had out in the Great Hall because it no longer fits in her bulging bag.  
  
And as she hurries on she does not notice Parkinson coming towards her, holding the same great tome in her arms; the Arithmancy textbooks. They knock shoulders in the crowd. They both drop their books, not noticing the other through the sea of black robes. I come up just behind them, as each one bends down to grab the other's book, on accident, of course.  
  
I guess smiles are considered odd as well, because now people stare at me as if being happy is wrong. Oh well. Their loss is my gain.  
  
But look, that's Diana running down the hall. With all those books and things in her arms you'd probably think she was running to class. But no; she may be a prefect, but she is not going to lessons at this time of day. She is going to the library to organize a thousand different things at once, from school events, to Quidditch games, to teacher conferences, to Quidditch strategies. She's no genius, and she is in no running for Head Girl; that spot belongs to Hermione. But her unlimited tasks keep her occupied. Volunteering at all the prefect meetings, becoming teacher's assistants, teaming with Lee Jordan for school matches, and being nominated and chosen for Ravenclaw Keeper and Captain. We hardly ever see her in the dorms anymore. She never even gets to spend time with her twin. We will meet her later; surely we will.  
  
But the bell rings and I'm going to be late for class. I don't even know where I am now. I haven't noticed where my feet have taken me, but I am not in the corridor that I need to be in. It seems that my feet move to what my heart desires, because I have been following Pansy Parkinson for some time now.  
  
I look around wildly as the remaining students flutter about, making it into the classrooms at the last moment. Among them is the dark head of Pansy. She is waiting just outside the door of the Defense Against the Dark Arts room, looking around as if waiting for someone. Just before I have the time to wonder who, Blaise Zabini, the red-haired, green-eyed lass of the emerald isle, comes bounding up the corridor.  
  
Cold-hearted and determined, the girl is the unexpected shadow of Slytherin. No one seems to pay her much attention, and she never seems to draw any to herself; but she is there, she has always been there. People know her by name yet not by face, and yet she is a gorgeous nobody that one can't help but stare at. Today she walks swiftly through the hallway, heading purposefully towards Pansy waiting anxiously near the Dark Arts classroom.  
  
You're late, Pansy hisses as Blaise levels with her. I fail to hide my person, standing fully exposed in the middle of the empty corridor. But neither girl sees me; they are far too absorbed in each other.  
  
Since when are you early? Blaise asks. She reaches forward with one perfectly manicured hand, motioning for the Arithmancy textbook in Parkinson's hands.  
  
Pansy pulls her hand back a little bit. Why do you need it? she asks, pulling up her defenses. She has always been a bit paranoid with her things. She just hated when others honed in on her property. Blaise sighs.  
  
I need it for study hall.  
  
You don't need it for study hall.  
  
Blaise rolls her eyes. I already went over this with you; I do need it for study hall.  
  
Why? You don't take Arithmancy.  
  
The sound of crunching leaves echoes in from the courtyard. I look over and find that Hagrid is strolling across the grounds, a large bucket of mandrake leaves swinging from his hand. I wave over at him and yell out his name, calling a great raucous in the otherwise quiet scenery. Both girls glare at me, but proceed with their conversation. Hagrid looks over and waves back.  
  
I was going to help Macmillan with his homework. That's Blaise, sounding as innocent as can be. But Pansy snorts disapprovingly.  
  
I can't believe you're spending time with a Hufflepuff. You're disgraceful.  
  
Blaise disregards this remark and simple reaches over for the book, closing her nimble fingers over it's thick sides. I am disgracing no one, she says. Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.  
  
Then you do that, Parkinson answers, hands on hips and brow wrinkled in disapproval. My father says furrowing one's brow is bad; your face freezes in such a way and you get headaches. Pansy looks like she has a lot of headaches. She really is a good-looking girl, but the way she screws up her face in anger all the time makes her look cruel and misshapen.  
  
But she's gone now, retreating into the confines of her classroom. And Blaise is already headed for the library. Who do I follow now? Hagrid across the courtyard, Pansy into her classroom, or Blaise to the library? Or maybe I should return to class...  
  
But that wouldn't be much fun, now would it? So I trail behind Blaise, watching as her flaming hair bobs up and down in her excitement. I actually am ready to just walk up and talk to her; it probably would be interesting. But the time has passed, because we have reached the entrance to the library. The day seems to be looking up for me. I've had loads of homework from Professor Snape, and I do need some time to catch up. So I settle in a table at the center of the library, a table in perfect view of Blaise and her destined study buddy Ernie Macmillan. He was always an odd sort of ball, as I have thought since I met him on the first meeting of the D.A. I never really favored his overly-enthusiastic mood.  
  
And now he bubbles with joy at the sight of Blaise Zabini. Most boys do not get to study with a forbidden Slytherin. Seems strange that he is not holding a grudge against her, as so many others do towards that house. Maybe the fact that she's pretty has something to do with it. Or maybe not. I'm not exactly sure.  
  
For the entire period I work diligently on my homework. I need to get it done sometime, and now seems the most appropriate time. I'll glance up every now and then, but I only hear laughter between the two, the Arithmancy book set aside, forgotten in the joy. It looks lonely. I would have paid it some attention were it on my table.  
  
When the bell rang I began to pack away my things. For a while I forgot about Blaise and Ernie. But as I passed by their table I noticed that it was empty save for the Arithmancy book that had been left behind. Now see, that isn't a very good thing. The book did not belong to the library, but to Pansy Parkinson. I thought it very careless of Blaise to have left it behind. Pansy would have missed it.  
  
But then again, my things go missing all the time, and they always turn up sooner or later. So I voted against the urge to pick it up and walked out of the library. Madam Pince passed me by and I was about to say 'hello' to her but she told me 'shh' and walked past me. Maybe she was in a bad mood today. The last thing I saw of her was her lanky frame hovering over the Arithmancy book and tutting loudly...  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Oh dear, you did not reach the branch in time. Shame too; that story was an interesting one. But no matter. We can try another time. We have all the time we need here in the garden...  
  
But time is of the essence, and doesn't that holly over yonder look simply divine? The shade of it's branches looks cool and welcoming, and the shadow traces a jagged line around the edge. Let us sit back against its cool bark. Now look up. Do you see it now?  
  
From far away it looks sweet and welcoming, speaking of protection and loyalty and the promise of sanctuary from the sun. But here, where you can see past the shield of leaves, is a different story. Here you can see the disorder and confusing array of stray branches and twisting vines mixed with an assortment of living and dying leaves. Here is the confession of the holly. Here is the confession of Harry. 


	3. Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind  
  
Had it come to this? Waiting, alone once more, in the shadows? He had not been this way since he was eleven, cowering in his own space in a cupboard under the stairs. But that was different; that was fear. This was something more intense, more powerful...this was something dangerous.  
  
He could hear them calling his name, their voices hanging frozen in the brittle air. But what did they matter? He was not in danger; not yet, anyway. He just wanted to be alone. He needed to think.  
  
The vast stretch of green before him was cast with the glowing flames of twilight. The sun, itself, was nothing but a great explosion of power sinking low behind a thin horizon. A fierce wind blew through his hair, digging its way into his skin and chilling his very bones. He ignored it. It did not compare to the cold encasing his heart.  
  
"Harry," someone cried, their voice desperate with worry. But why should he answer? Let them suffer with the knowledge of his stolen life, lying in a meadow and waiting to be discovered. Let them think that he had fallen at the hand that ached to kill him from the moment he was born. Let them worry, it would not be long. He just needed to remember him.  
  
He stared up into the sky, half shrouded with darkness yet splashed with the fighting colors of the day. The night was blue, such a dark blue that it was black. Black like his hair, black like his eyes. It was Black like his name. Harry could feel the pain in his chest.  
  
There were times when he still recalled that moment when his godfather fell through the veil, his face completely surprised at the spell Bellatrix had thrown at him. But it plays differently in his mind. It is slower, more dramatic. The way his eyes were devoid of any fear would be legendary for him, and the way he sacrificed his life for a boy he had scarcely known for three years would be unforgettable.  
  
But still.  
  
This was not something he wanted to remember, no matter how important it was for him to do so. There were many times when he had actually fallen headfirst into the memory and had imagined that he was back in the Department of Mysteries, fighting a battle he thought he would never win. And on those occasions, he had come so close to breaking. And to break would be a deathly sin.  
  
He was not what everyone thought him to be. He was not the kind- hearted, gentle and courageous hero that he had played for five years. That was a different Harry. But this Harry, the one standing alone on the moor and staring up into the sky, was the real him; and this one was dangerous.  
  
It was not revenge that crossed his mind—that would have been a thought produced by human nature. No, his soul held a darker hue than that. It was hatred; pure, undiluted hatred that surged through every fiber of his being. It was a hatred so pronounced that Harry had fantasized of a blood-thirsty revenge that he would more than likely enjoy. He wanted to kill...he wanted death.  
  
"Harry, there you are," someone called from behind, their voice undeniably relieved. Harry heard footsteps come closer and soon the face of his best friend, Ron Weasley, was at his side. "Didn't you hear any of us calling? We've been worried sick!"  
  
Harry didn't answer. He just stood there, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders and the wind blowing through his hair.  
  
"Hey, are you okay?" Ron asked, stepping closer to him. But Harry wanted to be alone.  
  
"Go away," he said.  
  
Ron frowned, refusing to back down. "No, of course you're okay. You're always okay. Silly of me to think otherwise."  
  
Harry closed his eyes, fighting back the rage that was strangely building up inside of him. "I said go away."  
  
"No. I'm getting fed up with this game, Harry. Every time someone turns away you run off like a little kid and get us all worried over nothing! What's wrong with you?"  
  
Harry didn't answer.  
  
"Ron, stop," Hermione said, her shadow appearing from over the hill. Harry didn't have to turn around and look at her to know that she wasn't herself either.  
  
"No," Ron said, ignoring her. "I don't care if he's depressed over his godfather! Acting like this is dangerous Hermione. He needs to stop."  
  
"You can't help it," she said. "He needs to finish this on his own." And Harry felt the first swellings of emotion after a long and endless void. He praised Hermione for her defense, thankful that she was there to try and keep Ron at bay.  
  
"Finish this my arse," Ron snapped, turning away from her. "Harry, get back in the house!"  
  
"I said go away, Ron."  
  
"No!" He reached forward then, grasping his shoulder in attempts to drag him back to the house. But it didn't happen in such a way. The small contact immediately went haywire, and Harry's mind was quickly thrown back in time.  
  
In a flash, the sight of spells flying across the amphitheatre rose before his eyes, and he panicked terribly. He reached inside his robe, grasping the slender piece of wood that had saved his life more than once before. He ignored the shouts of "Harry! Harry, what are you doing?", hearing them as shouts in the distance. The wand was before him, the tip was pointed at the closest body...a Death Eater.  
  
"You killed my godfather," he hissed. "Now die a traitor's death."  
  
"Harry!" Ron cried, backing away frantically. "Harry, it's me!"  
  
"Crucio!" he bellowed. The spell exploded from his wand tip and hit Ron in the chest, hard. He fell to the ground, screaming in pain, his body twitching and his eyes screwed shut from the agony.  
  
"Harry James Potter!"  
  
Harry turned to the side, completely devoid of any emotion. Hermione stood next to him, her hand on his arm and her eyes filled with worry and earnest. "It's Ron," she said curtly. That was all. It was enough.  
  
Harry's eyes snapped over to his best friend, his cries suddenly splitting the air in two. In a blind panic, Harry heaved his wand hand away and broke the spell, the life coming slowly back into his eyes. Ron stopped crying out, silent tears trickling down his face. Frantic, Harry fell to his side, helping him to a sitting position.  
  
"Ron," he whispered, too ashamed for words. "Ron, I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry..."  
  
Ron only leaned against his knees, breathing hard and staring at the ground. "Harry," Hermione said quietly from behind them. "Harry, that as an Unforgivable Curse."  
  
"I know," he said, resting his forehead on Ron's shoulder. "I know. I'm sorry Ron."  
  
"You used the Cruciatus Curse," Hermione repeated.  
  
Harry drew a shuddering breath, pounding his fist lightly onto Ron's arm. "I know. I didn't mean too. I'm sorry."  
  
"Harry, you're dangerous."  
  
Harry looked up abruptly then, staring back at her. His eyes were slitted, and the blazing green of emeralds were leaping with flames of rage. "What did you say?" he demanded. Hermione furrowed her brow.  
  
"What?"  
  
He rose to his feet, facing her squarely. "What did you say?" he repeated. Hermione shrugged helplessly at him. She backed away as he advanced on her, her eyes involuntarily flickering to the wand still clutched in his hand. Boldly, she reached out and grasped him by his shoulders, staring him in the face.  
  
"I didn't say anything, Harry. Please...what's happening to you?"  
  
"I'm not dangerous," he hissed.  
  
"I didn't say you were," she replied. They stared at each other a long time, Hermione determined to break this strange exterior Harry had conjured over the past months. She succeeded.  
  
In an act of deep desperation, Harry broke down, pulling her into a great embrace and burying his face into her soft hair. "I don't know what's happening to me," he said, his voice muffled.  
  
"You're ill," she answered, noticing his cold body and rubbing his arms. "You have to stop sneaking out in the evenings."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You're dangerous."  
  
Harry stiffened. "Who said that?" he asked again. Ron stood up behind him.  
  
"You're hearing voices," he said sternly. "Like Hermione said, you're ill."  
  
"Because you're dangerous. Dangerous Harry Potter, destined to betray and be betrayed himself."  
  
Harry broke from Hermione's arms then, looking at his two friends, and then bolting down across the moor.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
The face beyond the face beyond the face. You have known one, now you know two. Only one more yet to go. But we have time. We'll always have time in the garden. 


End file.
